


eau de résistance

by coldho



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: F/F, Good Omens Deserves An Anime Beach Episode 2kMiniSeries19, but the real kink here is for: environmental justice and natural resource management, edited bc Pollution is nb and I Love To Project!!, it isn’t good but I guess there’s some rough sex, still lesbians tho Let's Go (nb) Lesbians, teeth? teeth????, uuuh choking? implied????
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-15
Updated: 2019-05-15
Packaged: 2020-03-05 16:57:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18832840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coldho/pseuds/coldho
Summary: Pollution’s never given a shit. War drinks a mimosa. Big Oil is Big Bad.





	eau de résistance

**Author's Note:**

> Pollution and War were always in my top 5 and now that Lourdes Faberes is Pollution? 1) #1 absolute top I’m deeply in love 2) the nb lesbian potential y’all…I LOVE CLIMATE CHANGE Y’ALL…

They run into each other sometime late in the summer of ’04. It’s a complete accident. She’s toeing the brink of a three-way massacre between Big Oil, the simmering rage of a region’s local populace that has been Devastated by capitalism, and a national government with a hands-over-the-ears “I CAN’T HEAR YOU” policy. Their focus, meanwhile, is on picking through the metal holding Big Oil’s rig together.

They meet on the beach, fate or happenstance depending on your opinion of ineffability and nature vs. nurture. She tilts her head up from where she’s lounging in the sand, sunglasses slipping down her nose like she’d planned it, endless legs crossed over and over and over each other.

“Haven’t seen you in a while,” she says, husky, red lips sprawled. From somewhere behind her, they choose to ignore the sounds of what is likely an impending divorce.

Humans. Never know when to keep their business their business.

“We,” she continues, “should catch up.”

Pollution stills. They're surrounded by broken glass instead of seashells, waves lapping an old fishing net up around their ankles. They know they’re just as dangerous as War, but they can still feel the push of War’s power against them.

It’s exhilarating, almost. They wonder if this is how the people they're surrounded by feel when they come through.

They pick through the glass, feet oozing brown sludge when it sinks in, in spite of or because.

-

“You’re awfully new,” War says, laughing over her mimosa. It’s a deep laugh, one that reminds them of drums and bagpipes and the heavy fall of armor across battlefields. “Not sure you’ve accumulated any vacation time, yet.”

“We’re _both_ on a job,” Pollution points out with a shrug. Their pi _ñ_ a colada has long since melted, and there are already stiff bubbles of sticky congealed sugar coating a thick sheen across the top. They don't really mind; they shouldn’t be drinking (even if it doesn’t technically affect them) because War is right. It takes centuries to be cleared for vacation time.

“Teamwork, then” War says, considering, “I’ve always been a fan – armies and all – but they’re really into it this decade. Ever been to one of those leadership trainings?”

Pollution shakes their head.

“Loads of fun, middle management’s full of rage,” she says in lieu of explanation, taking a long sip of her drink with a satisfied grin instead. Her red lips leave a perfect circle on the rim of her glass, bright against the grime that’s slowly creeping up it.

“Bit of a dirty fight we’re doing together, anyways,” War continues. She leans in, hand on her chin, red hair dripping over her shoulder. A stench of iron lingers thick about her, one that makes Pollution think of rusted nails. They wonder what they’d find if they were to rake their fingers across War’s skin. “You causing a spill makes my job much easier – can’t say I’m contributing much to this one.”

She takes another sip, then sighs, rolling her eyes up. “I guess you’re the _real_ leader of this job,” she says, coquettish.

It’s a clear hook, but Pollution takes it without care.

“The government didn’t put much regulation in place,” they say. They aren't placating – it’s just fact. “And you gave the boss the guts to completely toss out the rulebook.”

War slowly rolls her eyes back down, smiling languidly. _But it isn’t a smile_ , Pollution thinks. She looks…almost bored, chin heavy on her palm, brow lax. “I suppose,” she drawls, arching her back and rolling her shoulders.

“Why don’t we go back to the beach?” she says, shifting to stand. “We can keep an eye out better there.”

Pollution shrugs. War looks disappointed.

-

“You know,” Pollution says, eyes tracing a slow swath down War’s back. It’s smooth, and tan, and shines in the light of the sun. They aren't sure if it’s sunscreen or grease. Maybe both.

War cuts them off with a hum. “Didn’t know you could speak without prompting,” she says. Her tone isn’t cold, but War is never cold when she wants to pick a fight.

Pollution doesn’t rise to it. They've never needed to.

“They say the climate becoming warmer makes people angrier. It’s going to cause more fights in the future,” they continue. War pauses at that, shifts slightly so she’s twisted around on her elbows.

She’d untied her bikini top when they’d first gotten there, laid on her stomach with the claim that she’d needed to “even out her tan lines.” Pollution had shrugged and sat beside her, watching the beach guards watch them. War’s breasts were heavy on the sand, and her position couldn’t have been relaxed; propped up, she’s surely more comfortable, but her chest is fully exposed.

It’s not a nude beach, but the guards aren’t going to reprimand them, now fully ogling War without abandon. When War feels their gaze, she carelessly throws one a haphazard wink. They start to argue over it, of course, but War is busy.

“We’re in the tropics,” she says, lids heavy on Pollution, “It’s awfully hot now; I know I am. Aren’t you?”

Pollution raises their brows. “It’s not the same for me.”

-

War spends the afternoon in a huff, hair aflame around her, arching and posing and nothing close to lounging on the sand. The guards fight, the tourists fight, and Pollution watches the sea, wonders when the ebb of the waves against the coast will bubble in time with War. Someone on the rig must be getting frustrated, from the humidity or the dehydration or the difficulties of holding one of the most strenuous jobs in the world. They must be close to slipping up, or throwing a punch, or slamming a mug of coffee down on an innocuous “release” button.

When the sunset rolls around, War finally flings herself up. She levels Pollution with a stare that bares thinly veiled hate, sniffing imperiously. “I,” she says, head high, “Am going back to my hotel. I’m out of entertainment here.”

It’s true; the sand is dotted with red like her hair is dotted with sand. Pollution shrugs, rises slowly.

“I’ll come with you. Don’t have a room,” they say. They reach up as they amble past, tuck back red hair. A stream of something thick is left in their wake, clear but sticky. It wouldn’t be sweet, they think, likely burning on the throat and irreparably clouding. They're surprised the strands don’t sizzle as they pass.

It’s fitting.

“You’re going the wrong way,” War snaps, drawn up tight. She doesn’t refuse her, though.

Pollution lets a smile drift over their face, stretched thin like an overfilled garbage bag. Humans throw themselves away for them, but it seems they aren’t the only ones.

“Oh,” they reply, “We’ll get there.”

-

They wind up on a rocky inlet, crawling up peaks of volcanic stone and jumping heavily into the sand between. The water is only inches away, the rock coated with a clammy damp.

It darkens quick, sky clear. The moonlight washes over them, but it isn’t quite enough. Pollution has never had need for grace; they stumble early, falls fast.

War has been tagging them the whole way. She pounces immediately.

“You said it isn’t the same for you,” War hisses, crouching over them in the sand. She tears at Pollution’s T-shirt, ripping it up and over her head. She bites at their collarbone, teeth grinding against bone. “What the _fuck_ does that mean!”

“It isn’t,” Pollution says. War licks a slow streak over their nipple, Pollution silent under her hands. Her tongue is rough, and Pollution imagines it being tipped with barbed wire as it draws something inky black from their chest. “There’s an inevitability. Don’t need to fight for it.”

War mouths their chest, then sinks in. “Humans like to fight,” she grits, “But they need stimulus. Doesn’t matter what.”

“No,” Pollution says. “They waste so much.”

With that, they force their knee up between War’s legs, hook around her hip and leverage themself to force War onto her back.

War groans, rakes her hands down Pollution’s sides as she falls onto the beach, nails tracing an uneven, sharp staccato like bullet fire. She writhes when Pollution drops their head to bite pits like tar into her thighs. War tastes like salt and sand, particles sticking gritty to her skin.

“Then it’s inevitable,” they breathe, head dipping up to scrape their teeth along the curve of her hip while they push two fingers into War’s cunt without warning. It’s slick, and resists, and War bucks hard onto her, hisses and cackles and kicks. She can’t help but squirm up to kneel, struggling to grasp at Pollution’s throat.  

Pollution does roll their eyes at this. Needy, needy – so they adjust, fingers crooking, thumb twisting around to scratch at her clit while their other arm swings up, forearm crushing into War’s throat, shoving her roughly into the sand. It makes her inhale sharply, kick out again to knee Pollution in the ribs.

Not that Pollution minds the pain; instead, they let the impact hit, pressing harder, driving War deeper into the beach, scraping it against her, letting it draw rust. It’s uncomfortable, and gritty, and they've never been one to let anything go.

War grinds down with a jolt against their hand. She wheezes, strangled, her grin spreading.

“When’s the last time – ” she gasps, “you washed – your hands – ”

“I haven’t. You’re going to get tetanus,” Pollution deadpans, then twists.

-

Poetic justice has the rig break while they lay against the rocks. Later, there will be talk of a smug employee neglecting valves, too busy complaining that he’s “above” his work to actually do any of it. If its found that the pipes rusted through faster than was physically possible, no one will mention that. Instead, when the oil oozes onto the shores, the people will respond with riots that spread across the coast like the fire that is, incidentally, lit on the oil spill.

Because of course it is.

But before all of that happens, War sprawls in the sand, Pollution sitting heavy on her hips, oozing over her. They watch alarms spring to life on the horizon, one gaze catlike, the other nonchalant.

“Central America is going to hit a drought soon,” War says, “And the Middle East is getting _so_ hot.”

Pollution bends, lips brushing across War’s jaw. They’re coated in lighter fuel and motor oil and gun soap.

War breathes in the smell with a sigh.

“Content,” Pollution says, considering, "That would never fit you."

War tenses, but also grins. Pollution rolls their eyes again and wonders what government will fall in response.


End file.
